You lost the right to wear that crown (I built you up but you let me d
by ibuzoo
Summary: "My answer remains the same, Thomas", his father's voice is a monotonous tone, almost indifferent and Tom breathes, feels his palms itch where his nails scratch the thin layer of skin, spits furiously, "Why not? It's just one weekend." Tom Riddle Sr. flashes a smile at him, all teeth and caustic like a jackal and Tom wonders how it'd feel to ram the pen into his main artery.


**You lost the right to wear that crown (I built you up but you let me down)**

**Prompt:** Family

**Rating: **M

**Warnings:** modern AU / mention of suicide / mention of serial killer

**Word count:** 1190

**Summary: **"My answer remains the same, Thomas", his father's voice is a monotonous tone, almost indifferent and Tom breathes, feels his palms itch where his nails scratch the thin layer of skin, spits furiously, "Why not? It's just one weekend."

Tom Riddle Sr. flashes a smile at him, all teeth and caustic like a jackal while he enjoys his pyrrhic victory, puts the clasp on his fountain pen and Tom wonders how it'd feel to break his teeth one by one or ram the pen into his main artery.

**A/N:** I considered if I should do a prompt about how Tom and Hermione create a family and how everyday life is during the grow up of their daughter and son - but then I thought it'd be more interesting to do a prompt about Tom's family dynamic in a modern AU where he grew up with his father and grandparents.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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Tom Riddle Sr. sits behind his desk like a king on his throne and he swings his Montblanc fountain pen, leaving his signature on dozens of copies with an elegant sway. His face is blank with rage, his voice a deadly quiet hiss and Tom straightens himself, tenses his shoulders while his blood boils and his fingertips bury in the flesh of his palms until they flash white and pale.

"My answer remains the same, Thomas", his father's voice is a monotonous tone, almost indifferent and Tom breathes, feels his palms itch where his nails scratch the thin layer of skin, spits furiously, "Why not? It's just one weekend."

Tom Riddle Sr. flashes a smile at him, all teeth and caustic like a jackal while he enjoys his pyrrhic victory, puts the clasp on his fountain pen and Tom wonders how it'd feel to break his teeth one by one or ram the pen into his main artery. There's a deadly glimmer behind his father's eyes, blends in with the utter satisfaction that this man feels to deny him the private jet and the beach-cottage in Nauru for the weekend and Tom wants to object, to argument but the expression on his father's face splits, shifts and the man lunges, fist outstretched.

_(he welcomes the bruise that follows on his jaw)_

**i.**

He looks at the mirror and traces the outline of the bruise on his jawbone, eyes how dark purple and blue blend in with greens and yellows. His veins are throbbing, his rage is boiling and Hermione daubs white creme on the haematoma, murmurs reassuring words against his skin and he thinks about breaking his father's bones, twisting his neck, _kill him, kill him, kill him._ His eyes rest on hers and he never looks in the mirror once.

_(his father's violence runs in his blood but he doesn't want to remember it - she catches his eyes with hers and whispers his name)_

**ii.**

There's blinding sunlight and huge oak trees cast shadows on the grass which cool the ambient temperature of the opulent garden down and Hermione enjoys the taste of raspberry sorbet on her tongue while Tom and his grandfather debate over politics and the new British health care system. The table is covered in pastry and different kinds of tea and it reminds Hermione of the tables she used to admire in fairytale books, mostly the one from Alice's famous tea party in Wonderland, everything perfectly served, perfectly praised. She observes the way Tom's grandmother pecks crumbs of imaginary dust of his navy Lacoste polo shirt and wonders just how much of their sophistication already coils around him.

**iii.**

He follows a ritual as soon as they're back in their flat again, a solid pattern that can't be changed; first he takes off all his clothes, then his Patek Philippe watch before he climbs into the shower with water far over forty degrees where mist sets a thick haze on cabinets and mirror.

He never casts a glance in the mirror, neither does he clean it afterwards.

_(his grandparents' perfection runs in his blood but he doesn't want to remember it - she grabs his hand and tugs him in her lap)_

**iv.**

It rains appropriately enough on All Saint's Day and Tom's hand rests heavy in hers. He clenches his knuckles almost painfully and she considers to push her elbow in his ribs to give him a sign to slacken his grip.

The tombstone is ostentatious, paramount with ivory marble and two angel statues on each side with wild locks and little trumpets in their hand while dark green ivy graces golden letters which write the name of Tom's mother. Hermione remembers the whispers she heard a while back that the poor woman died in an inflated renowned psychiatry where she cut her wrists open with a plastic knife and bled herself to death.

She ignores the pain in her hand and clenches her knuckles in the rhythm of Tom's.

**v.**

His tie hangs loosely over the chair, the black coat right besides and she observes quietly the way he washes his face with frozen water in the sink, how he pushes his dark hair behind, eyes stoical on the mirror in front. There's madness in his essence, cruelty in his substance and he lashes out, smashes the glass.

_(the morbidity of his mother runs in his blood but he doesn't want to remember it - she cleans his knuckles and kisses them one by one)_

**vi.**

She only meets his grandfather on his mother's side once, a brief encounter at the staircase of their flat when she returns from a long shift at the hospital and the man is twice as suave as he is cunning, kisses her hand briefly in old-fashioned manner and winks an eye— a deadly mixture that she finds interesting and dangerous at once.

She's still startled, a bit taken by surprise and it's not before she opens the door that she realizes that the old bastard had broken into their flat.

_(he didn't take the Knipschildt truffles and Hermione eats four of them while Tom complains to the police)_

**vii.**

There's a risky glimmer in his eyes, perilous and predatory and she pushes the blanket over her body, screeches as soon as he clambers on the bed, starts to rip the sheets apart and she knows she will give in, falls victim to his seductive charms as soon as he starts to nibble at the delicate flesh on her neck.

_(Marvolo's charm runs in his blood but he doesn't want to remember it - she kisses his lips and buries her hands in his hair)_

**viii.**

The article in the newspaper talks about disgusting serial murders and the name of the killer flashes bright against the grayish paper, a name that reverberates in the back of her mind, reminds her that his family has two sides, two faces.

_(he does too)_

She observes the way the muscles in his neck convulse, tense up and he turns the page around, tacks his eyes on the bourse article. He doesn't speak a word and neither does she.

**ix.**

The beds of his fingertips are encrusted in blood, little crumbs which he scrubs down until his skin is white and pristine once more - flawless, like himself. He doesn't tremble, doesn't flinch anymore and Hermione leans her head on his shoulder, waits. He never looks in the mirror once.

_(his uncle's cruelty runs in his blood but he doesn't want to remember it - she kisses his neck and feels his pulse calming down)_

**x.**

Tom smirks and it's perfectly safe, perfectly sane, it's never far from his lips as blood is never far from his hands and he leans down, captures Hermione's lips in his own, presses his tongue in and tastes the sweet flavour of her mouth, sucks on her flesh and she bites down on him, savours it just the same.

Tom's smirk in the mirror reflects gruesome but it's perfectly safe, perfectly sane, perfectly his.

_(Tom runs in her blood and she wants to remember it always, always, always)_


End file.
